Sad to Say Goodbye

So my internship concludes this upcoming week. It has been a fantastic experience and although I am apprehensive about what's next (there are some options besides dog-walking and illegal organ harvesting- don't fret!), I'm concerned obviously about my income. But truth be told, here's why I'm actually pretty sad about leaving.

You see, my building is incredibly close to Rockefeller Center...30 Rock...and I still harbor this now-not-so-secret hope that Tina F. and I will have this delightfully platonic meet-cute...fast forward: I'm her assistant!

So as is my wont: I googled her name and the word "assistant" because who knows? Maybe there's an opening! 

But, what I did find was this: Save the Assistants

What a cool website.

There, that's my first blog in three weeks. So get off my back. I have to return to perfecting my dog calls and going on a liver detox. 

And We're Back...

After one Chick-fil-a chicken biscuit, a quick jaunt to my old school, breakfast with my very own Breakfast Club (we were not brought together by acid-washed jeans nor Saturday morning detention, but I do my share of hearty laughing around them- consider this your shout-out, folks), exhausting hours of shopping with my mom, and catching up with my dear friends, I have returned.

And I am still tired.

See, I was a bit on the defensive about going home. More like, I was on edge, prepared to be verbally combative should anyone ask me the dreaded question, however well-intentioned:

"So... Dating anyone?"

But to my surprise, not one single person asked me about the status of my lovelife. 

'what do you think about the situation in Chechyna?'

Perhaps, my cadre of acquaintances and friends have learned that I will most likely not have an interesting answer and oh Lord, have given up hope. Instead, I got a lot of this:

"What are you doing now?"

Trying to articulate the year of transition that is your post-grad year is difficult. A couple of trusted individuals got the brunt of my frustration, and when I realized I was about the unleash a lot of verbal diarrhea about my defeated ambitions, I had to reign it in. Communicating exactly what I am doing with myself, with my life? I suppose I need to make some bulleted lists and be able to give concrete examples of how although it may appear differently, I do possess a strong sense of direction in my life.

My college friends the year below are going to graduate Saturday. I won't really be able to say I 'just' graduated anymore. 

This is the part in my usual postings in which I do my darndest to be optimistic and positive, but nope, I'm going to continue sending my resume out and watch Pride and Prejudice in the meantime. 

Girl, I Heard She Eats One Cracker a Day

Clearly, this is The Best Time Ever to pursue a career in journalism. Newspapers are falling, magazines are floundering, while websites are quickly overtaking both as the premiere media outlet with no clear business plan. So not only are the eager spring chickens not finding much stability, it seems the older, virile stand-bys aren't safe anymore either.

Liz Smith, a tried-and-true vet of various New York papers, is known best for her gossip column in the Post. Was, was known best, until yesterday, when her last article was printed. She will continue her usual exploits in various syndicated outlets and isn't leaving without her signature outspokenness and aplomb.

Check out this interview between the precursor to the days of Perez and Paris and Lloyd Grove. Somehow, I think she'll be just fine.

Long Live the Queen! [The Daily Beast]

image: Mediabistro

Freezing to Death

On 30 Rock, Liz Lemon repeatedly settles into dating her beeper salesman ex, Dennis Duffy, a less-than-stellar boyfriend candidate. Her coworker, Jenna, asks here why she keeps going back to him. Liz says, "If you give into it then you just start to feel kind of numb and warm and then you just get sleepy." She barely has to work at the relationship, doesn't have to keep up appearances, and can continue to munch on her favorite Sabor de Soledad chips. "That's exactly what they say it's like to freeze to death," Jenna counters maternally. Cut to a montage of Liz falling asleep in the snow a la the poor little match girl with her one remaining candle blown out.

I myself thought I was nearing the Great Beyond the past week with the subzero wind chill my long down coat could barely stifle. My joints began to stiffen, and I grew concerned when I realized I couldn't bend my pinky, only to remember the zebra-print bandage tightened around the slice on my knuckle sustained from an unwieldy letter opener. Frostbite averted, I do consider myself like Liz Lemon (oh! count the reasons!) but in so much as our fear of settling. I adore my job, work with fantastic people, and am privileged enough to be paid to work for a successful publication, even if it doesn't involve me writing. But I'm in this industry to write, and to write well, better than I would if left to my own devices (and blogging), and although this is temporal, I know, it's so easy for me to become complacent and forget what I'm in this for. I keep saying I'm going to "freelance" just like I'm going to "take up running" or "give up sugar" or "stop biting my nails," but my career goals aren't flash-in-the-pan whims of self-improvement. So instead of my own aspirations being snuffed out, it's high time a candle got lit under my long-underweared bottom. It's likely that might take some more time, what with the ever-present snow and well, what my sunlight-loving friends and I like to refer to as SAD. Nothing some Mexican cheese puffs and 30 Rock reruns can't fix.

No Job? No Apartment? No Problem!

A little over 3 months ago, I packed 2 suitcases and headed to the Memphis airport to fly to Manhattan on a 1-way ticket. 'The rats, the gossip girls, the mad men- this will be brilliant fodder for my no-doubt soon illustrious journalism career! Hand me my beret and call me Mary Tyler Moore!'

Yep, I moved to New York a few days before the stock market took a serious dip, without any reliable employment or a place to live, only a few kindly friends who offered me an air mattress as a temporal home. I luckily found my current internship within 36 hours of landing, but the apartment came later...much later. After countless days of inaudible sobbing on the streets and serious consideration of sleeping at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I found a sublet- for now.

I haven't had to sleep on the subway, and my parents still have a probable chance of having grandchildren since I haven't yet made good on my promise to sell my eggs. But I've ralphed for the first time since 1995, and Tina Fey has yet to offer me a full-time position as her protege. 

Cupcake by cupcake, things can only go up from here. Right?